“Don’t,” I said, rougher than I meant to. His eyes got wider, and he took another step back. He was partway in the hallway now. Whether to make a quick escape to his bedroom or to protect himself in case I wanted to hurl my slipper in his direction, I wasn’t sure.
“I’m here to cook dinner. I realized when you came tonight, meeting me like that meant you probably hadn’t eaten. I also know you get cranky when you don’t eat. I do, too, remember? You know how bad my headaches are when I skip a meal.”
“Emma. What are you talking about? What do you mean, cook dinner?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and moved closer, but I pushed him aside, stomping into the kitchen and setting the bags on the counter. I shook my hand out, clenching and releasing my fist to get the blood moving before squaring my shoulders and turning slightly to glance at him. He’d followed me into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as I removed the meat and pasta from the bag.
“I thought it would be harder to find pork chops this late, butvoila, there they were, tucked beside the filet.”
“Emma.”
“No. No. It’s fine,” I said, taking out the linguini next. “I wasn’t able to find the infused olive oil you like, so we’ll have to make do with extra virgin, but the other ingredients weren’t a problem. Luckily, capers and lemons are plentiful, along with twenty-four-hour supermarkets. I should be thankful your tastesaren’t too exotic, right?” I chuckled, pressing my hands to my overheated cheeks.
I grabbed a pan from above the stovetop to sauté the chops, but as I reached for the cutting board, his nimble fingers wrapped around my wrist, and he squeezed.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, tugging me closer. I shook him off and reached for the stove, needing to keep my hands busy. He didn’t need to know they were trembling.
“You’re always hungry.”
“You don’t have to cook.”
“I want to cook.”
“Stop arguing with me, Em.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
He sputtered, and I shifted from foot to foot, setting the pan down and turning toward the cabinet. Not to be deterred, he grabbed my waist this time, towering over me and pushing me against the kitchen table. My back hit the edge, and he spread his legs, caging me within his body. Warm coffee and spice comforted me, and I had the laughable notion of licking his neck, wondering if it would give me the same boost of energy as caffeine.
“You brought this upon yourself when you insisted on making me dinner when all I want to do is figure out what’s going on. Don’t keep yourself quiet now, okay?”
I opened and closed my mouth, the words I was so sure of earlier refusing to form because he foiled my plans to let me cook and gather my thoughts.
How could he—
No. Stop.
I took a breath, resting my forehead on his chest. I heard his exhale, then felt his hand caress the front of my neck, squeezing the sides before moving to the nape and tilting it so my gaze met his. Those dark orbs burned my skin, setting contradictinggoose bumps along my arms and across my chest. I opened my mouth, letting the clean scent of cotton surround me. I fisted the material, grasping his black vest and holding firm until my knuckles turned white.
“Miller?”
He nodded, one side of his mouth ticking up in the briefest smirk before he caught wind of my frown and quickly schooled his features. He closed his mouth with a deep sigh and nodded for me to continue.
I willed my heartbeat to slow and drew into myself for the courage to do this.
“Do you love me?”
Damn. Not the best opening line.
“Because if you don’t, you need to tell me right now. No more back and forth. No more lingering glances. And no more misunderstandings.” My confidence returned, flooding my body with the endorphins needed to grasp what I wanted with both hands.
“Do you have any idea how terrified I was to show up for you tonight?” he asked, taking two steps back and pointing a finger toward my face.
“Please. Miller,” I said, as he put up his hand apologetically and motioned for me to continue. He looked pained, like the last thing he expected was for me to barge into his home in the middle of the night with pork chops, wearing a formal dress and slippers. It was almost like he thought he deserved my wrath and was waiting for me to rain it down upon him.
Such bullshit.Maybe mild evisceration for insensitive comments, but not full-on wrath. He didn’t deserve that.
I just wanted—needed—him to see. To see me. I could be his everything, and he could be mine, if only he’d let me in.
